


obedat' (to dine)

by catharsis_in_a_bottle



Category: The Queen's Gambit (Book), The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asexual Character, Conversations, Dinner, Drug Use, Gen, not sure how else to tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharsis_in_a_bottle/pseuds/catharsis_in_a_bottle
Summary: Seven dinner parties and meet-ups: the Russian masters, Borgov, Townes, Benny, Harry, Jolene, and the ones Beth lost.
Relationships: Beth Harmon & Alma Wheatley, Beth Harmon & Benny Watts, Beth Harmon & D. L. Townes, Beth Harmon & Jolene, Beth Harmon & William Shaibel, Harry Beltik & Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov & Beth Harmon
Comments: 19
Kudos: 26





	1. The masters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the others. I thought it best to use it as a brief intro. 
> 
> This work is based mostly off the show, but I include some elements from the book as well. 
> 
> Alcohol/drug mentions in most chapters, potentially some actual usage; I'll add warnings on chapters for actual usage, but beware of mentions in pretty much every chapter. This is Beth we're dealing with. 
> 
> I'm basically just exploring the relationships between Beth and other characters, and dinner parties (even metaphorical ones) seemed to be an interesting way to do that, so here I am.

In her dreams, she stood in a room full of Russians. 

Sometimes, she hated her own mind and the things it did. Subconscious intimidation, tigers coming from the shadows even when she slept. The masters didn’t inspire any tangible fear - the most they got was anger, rage rightfully put to work as she cornered them and made attacks of her own. But some part of her was still an eight-year-old in a basement, no matter how many times she imagined ripping the skirts and tearing up the floorboards and denying the establishment the submission befitting a proper little girl. Sometimes, in the early hours after midnight, she found herself wanting to shave her head, maybe to cut away a weed that still lingered. 

Fear was a fucking weed and it followed her to her dreams.

The room itself wasn’t of particular importance. The walls were dark. No other discernible details. It was the people who surrounded her that stuck in her mind until morning. These weren’t nightmares, not exactly, but they inspired a sort of psychological thrill that sent ice daggers straight to the center of the soul. Shivers as you awoke to a cloudy morning. The Russians all had different eyes and different faces and different clothes, but they all had the same patient stare, eyes that waited for her to enter the battlefield. They had the weighted presence of rooks - powerful, as if she were merely a pawn. _Catch the queen_ , they chanted, and she felt nothing akin to royalty as they pressed inward, waiting for her to _make the move, make the move, make the move._

In Mexico she’d convinced herself she could defeat Borgov. In the end, it was his silent patience and the methodical artistry of his plays that brought him to victory, and his face took its place in the room of her dreams. Suddenly all the Russians wore suits and ties, silver cufflinks, satisfied smiles. Miss America wore lace dresses and red lipstick and dagger eyes. She was small and impermanent. She spent time with her head in the clouds while the masters read books like hungry lions and walked on marble floors in grand hallways. Moscow was the king that could never be captured. Why the hell did her mind think she was so afraid? Her wine glasses could shatter and she could slip into fatigue but there was no presence to be broken apart; her bones had never shaken and her mind had never faltered. Hardly anyone else could picture the chess boards and play the games in dream worlds. Sometimes, the pills didn’t even help her do it anymore. She was forged of her own kind of steel. Yet the Russians kept standing in her dreams.

One night they held a dinner party. White tablecloth, silver platters, assigned seats. She sat at one end and Borgov sat at the other, and not once did they look at each other. It was enough to know that he was confident and she was wrathful, stabbing at a mystery meal with that little silver knife. The rest of the masters lined the sides, Luchenko, Laev, Duhamel, a list of names that sent electricity to her very fingertips.

After she crushed them all in Moscow, Beth stopped having the dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading - I probably won't have a consistent posting schedule for subsequent chapters, but I hope I won't take too long in writing them.


	2. Borgov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know Russian or French; the small amount of translations I did come from Google translate and a smattering of websites, so they could easily be incorrect. My apologies to two entire languages. 
> 
> I had *sort of* written this chapter beforehand, and it's actually where I got the idea for the rest of this work.

Instead of stars, there were lights - thousands of them outshining and obscuring the night sky, shimmering through windows, beaming down from the street lamps, flashing from the headlights of passing cars. It was a galaxy in its own way; the shadows tucked in the alleyways and behind the smartly-dressed passerby formed the space between the millions of celestial bodies. 

Beth felt like one of the stars, like she’d fly away with her own radiance. It was quite something to escape the dreary stability of Kentucky and come to Paris, even if she’d seen it before. Each time was new and just as fulfilling. She tailored herself to the elegance of the city, enjoying each hour spent on decidedly trivial things like her makeup palette - but of course, it was all part of the game, the drive of appearance. She’d come to love the way she looked and presented herself, and tonight was no different. She’d cut her hair down to her chin again so that it hung in tight red waves, a pair of silver earrings peeking out from the sides. Her dress was silky and black with hints of golden lace trailing down the sides. Red lipstick. Black heels. She liked to think she was impressing each stranger she walked by. 

The concrete sidewalk was perhaps the only constant near the _Hôtel Grandiose_ , a tall and stately building that significantly added to the perpetual star-like glow of the street. People’s shoes clicked in a cacophony, their voices blending into each crevice of the pavement. Moving cars formed white noise in the background. Music drifted from windows and restaurants. All the noise created a veritable rainbow, a massive shimmering entity, and as Beth walked she imagined herself stepping physically through it. 

“ _Autographe_?” said an older woman, prodding Beth’s arm from the crowd. Beth was only mildly surprised that she’d been recognized - there was, after all, an upcoming tournament over the weekend, and certainly her face had appeared on more than one magazine.

“Sure,” said Beth, pulling a pen from her purse. Afterwards the woman smiled and sidled away, leaving Beth with a smile of her own. 

‘ _La reine revient à Paris_ ’ had been the title of one magazine. _The queen returns to Paris_. The tournament was one she’d been to before, one she remembered bitterly; Borgov had butchered her defenses. She’d been unprepared and hungover. Shit hit the fan. But she felt confident now. Not necessarily confident that she would _win_ \- Borgov was playing again and quite honestly, she didn’t know if she’d beat him - but confident that she was _her_ , fully, sharp and ready to create beautiful boards of her own. She hadn’t had a drink in forever; she knew what would happen if she did. 

She tilted her head up at the Hotel and sucked in a deep breath. Just a breath before stepping into the restaurant.  
  


* * *

  
  
The interior was absolutely cavernous, yet it was dim and carpeted, creating an illusion of proximity between the tables over which the dark ceiling towered. A dark-suited hostess came up to her new arrival with quick steps. 

“ _Bonsoir, Mademoiselle_.”

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” Beth replied with a horrible accent that undoubtedly cut away any pretense of ‘I live here.’ She paused for a moment and scanned the room; it was impossible to clearly make out any faces among the diners. 

The hostess leaned forward and squinted at her, studying her. 

“You are… Harmon? Elizabeth Harmon?”

“... yes.”

“Ah.” The woman smiled. “It is good to have you here. _Suivez-moi._ ” She began to walk away, and Beth, after an awkward second of confusion, walked after her, cutting through the maze of tables. The hostess led Beth towards the back corner, where a crystal chandelier hung over a wide table. They passed a small sitting area with a small coffee table on which someone had placed a chess board - in fact, a waitress standing nearby kept eyeing the board and then looking at Beth. She turned her head down.

A dark-haired couple sat next to each other at the table in the corner: a woman in forest green, and a man in black suit-and-tie. He turned his head just as Beth stepped into the glow of their lamp - and his lined face broke into a wide smile.

“ _Zdravstvuj_ , Borgov,” said Beth. For a moment they merely looked; and then, shaken from a brief trance, Beth reached to shake his hand. It felt strange, all of it - the companionship, the setting, the distinct lack of competition. But Borgov stood from his seat to give her a small hug, and the tension dissipated. 

He pulled away and looked at her. “ _Tak rad snova tebya videt'_ ,” he said. _So nice to see you again._

She attempted to return his expression of warmth and then went to shake Mrs. Borgov’s hand. Beth didn’t know the woman well, but she was evidently extremely kind. Mrs. Borgov almost hadn’t come for dinner, but her mind had been changed by her husband’s insistence upon a translator. “ _Ya khochu normal'no pogovorit_ '.” _I want to have a proper conversation._

Such a _normal_ situation lacked the invigoration that Beth held so dearly to her heart. To dine with one’s greatest opponent should have been like walking a tightrope, some great tragedy waiting beneath. She hadn’t seen Borgov since Moscow. God, it felt like an eternity. Yet here he was, a member of society, not some unreachable monolith like she’d thought so long ago. As they spoke, Mrs. Borgov intermediated with translations.

“So what have you been doing?” said Borgov with a small smirk. “Have you found any new opponents? Travelled the world? Daresay, taken up a hobby?”

“Oh, I’ve been going to meets,” Beth replied. “I couldn’t live without them. There have been tough games, but none as tough as yours.”

Borgov laughed. “It easily gets lonely at the top, especially with so few grandmasters. But I assumed you would retain your laser focus.”

“Yes, well. I’ve managed.” Beth paused, clearing her throat. “And… how are you both? Your kids?”

Mrs. Borgov smiled. “We’re getting by quite nicely. And the kids have a hereditary obsession with chess. Vasily has dedicated what little time he has to helping them learn.”

“Ah, but you might have little worthy opponents of your own someday,” said Beth. She was finding the conversation easy, and she hoped she could ride whatever wave she stood on. 

Borgov smiled, but his answer was cut off by the waiter, who asked the three of them about _drinks_. Wine? Cocktail? Always the same question, and it never used to bother Beth, but she found herself biting her lip as she ordered water. Goddamn slice of lemon, please. 

Hmph. No. The mood couldn’t be ruined by trivialities. 

She didn’t quite focus on the food. She couldn’t have recalled what she ordered. She did remember the clinking of the glasses and thinking about how old Borgov’s face really looked. His whole life had been games, pieces exerting power, but also congratulating Beth when she beat him. A quiet humility and respect that finally added the missing piece of humanity, a piece of the puzzle that she had failed to see when she’d thought of him as nothing more than a phobia to overcome. Now he was an opponent and a father and a man and perhaps a friend, and a name in chess that had stood above her own for many years. 

“To the players I get to know afterwards, I always ask this question,” said Borgov after dinner, folding his hands on the table. “I know it is generic and cliche, but I find the variety of answers fascinating. What does chess mean to you?”

Beth had answered this very question so many times that she practically had a script.

“It’s both logical and emotional, I think. Logical in the obvious sense, that there are certain moves and certain attacks and certain counteractions. Emotionally, I rely on it to feel like I’m… living. I need that logic, because it’s how my mind works, and it’s the way I’ve lived for so long now. The game lives in my head, and therefore I have to act on the plays.”

Borgov considered this for a moment. Then he smiled that wrinkled smile, saying, “That is a beautiful answer,” in English. 

Perhaps the conversation felt a little confining, because Beth felt a certain amount of relief when they were interrupted. A waitress, the one from earlier who’d kept looking between Beth and the chess board on the coffee table, came over to her and the Borgovs followed by a flock of excitable people who whispered and shifted their hands in and out of pockets. 

“Pardon,” said the waitress, shifting hands of her own, “but I… and the others… we just wanted to know…”

She seemed quite embarrassed.

“We wanted to know if you’d play a game of chess… Look, you definitely don’t have to, it’s just that none of us have ever seen an actual game and you two are here and I’m… a huge, huge fan.”

Beth sucked in a breath and looked at Borgov. For a moment she thought he would refuse, that he would declare such a thing beneath him, but after a few seconds he grinned at the waitress, and then at Beth. 

“ _If you would be willing to indulge_ ,” he said in Russian. 

Beth's heart rate began to climb. She nodded. 

The waitress and her flock led them over to the table, where an even larger crowd had already gathered. Borgov looked out of place with his stiff posture next to all these whispering, fidgeting people, but - 

“ _You have been my greatest opponent_ ,” he said, “ _and I have looked forward to playing you again_.”

Beth swallowed, adrenaline already tangible in her body. It’d always been something with a solid presence. 

“ _The opportunity presents itself, now and at the tournament_ ,” she told him. “ _Let’s play_.” 

Wordlessly, she handed Borgov the white king. She’d played white in Moscow, and she felt it was only fair that the starting roles be reversed. 

The crowd around them ceased its breathing as Borgov lifted his fingers, so worn with age, to play. A thrill of electricity to Beth’s fingertips, an old yet familiar feeling. The soft _thud_ of the first moved piece. The light falling over black and white. 

Borgov played the queen’s gambit against her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading!! Next chapter within the next few days, I hope.


	3. Townes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: this chapter is a bit more explicit on drug and alcohol usage, even if in a strange poetic-ish way. (Also more swearing, which is really just a self indulgence.)

Beth couldn’t define love until she was much, much older. 

The one thing she’d never understood as a child was the obsession with romance. All she’d ever wanted was the caress of a mother. Not her mother; her own mother had been created in fragments, pieces broken apart and drifting over the water. _That_ mother wouldn’t have understood chess, wouldn’t have understood that Beth’s heart was a wildfire that consumed it, oxygen needed to survive. Mrs. Wheatley was her mother too, and she understood, and then she fell under and was taken by the ruthless beast called death. Hah. So many metaphors to describe it, so many fucking similes. Really, it stood on its own, incomparable to anything she could trace her fingers along, anything she could feel gouging pieces of her heart out. There was death, and then there was the other obsession, the obsession with love. The kind of love that society required stolen kisses and innocuous touches paired along with it. Not the kind of love that Beth craved. Beth craved a mother and friends and people who’d carve themselves from marble to stand in her life forever. This was impossible and untouchable. 

Ah, yes, she thought, twirling a fork in her fingers, she had loved him, but not in the way she first believed. Intellectual obsession and emotional attachment and the soothing sound of his voice. The way he’d flown all the way to Moscow just to see her. Someone with a vague chance of fucking _permanence_ , even with gaps in the years they’d went without seeing each other. Townes pulled at the tablecloth, tapped his fingers - self-soothing gestures for a soul that was somehow turbulent despite its outward appearance. She twirled the fork and watched it glint in the light. Anticlimactic. Not a motion picture. Just two people sitting in her kitchen in Kentucky in a house she wanted to wreck and leave forever. 

But she’d never abandoned a game of chess before. 

Townes reached into his cooler beside the table; he’d dragged it along with him.

“Ginger ale?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows. Beth nodded. He dug in the cooler and pulled out a can that made her fingers go numb when she took it. 

“Maybe it doesn’t go the best with spaghetti, but hey, I need some caffeine,” said Townes. He rubbed at his eyes theatrically, and Beth laughed as he cracked open a can of soda and spilled it all over his jeans, bubbles running down onto the floor.

“That’s not how you open champagne,” she said with a smirk. Townes gave her a puzzled look, and her smirk widened into a grin. “What? Surprised I’m making a stupid drink joke?”

“Well, a _bit_ , considering.”

“Considering. Yes. It’s a party, Townes. I’ve lightened up. Hell, you stopped calling me _Harmon_ after six o’clock, I can only imagine where the rest of the night’s gonna go.”

“A party? I’m the only one here, _Beth_.”

“And you brought caffeine. Fuck yes, it’s a party. I haven’t had human interaction since the state championship last week and even then I was bored out of my fucking mind, just defending a title.”

“Apparently you swear like a sailor after six o’clock too.”

“I have the goddamn right.”

Beth snatched his empty plate, covered in remnants of red sauce, and kicked her chair back to toss the dishes in the sink. She wouldn’t wash them until the next morning, that was for sure. 

“So what are we gonna do?” she said, turning from the counter to face Townes and his folded hands. “Stay up watching movies ‘til we pass out? Laugh our asses off at gossip? Maybe… play chess?”

Townes rolled his eyes. “I’m not playing chess against you.”

“Oh, I know. Just checking.” 

Townes decided on movies.  
  
  
  
  
**_Before Moscow_**  
The Haze had a name, capitalized like a deity and treated with the reverence befitting the white queen. It was the most powerful piece, exerting its forces over each rank and file and diagonal when given free reign. The Haze had control of the entire mind and body; it blurred the lines between the senses and puppeteered the limbs. It painted the world as a lovely place, where stairways to heaven reached down into fairy tale forests, where music was sight and beauty was feeling. The Haze got rid of the tiny details that poked holes in everything that was wonderful, the things that layed like frost on dying grasses; morsels of despair, misplaced pawns, itches in places that couldn’t be reached. It was attainable in limited ways. The little green pills were the best, but when those ran out, it was night-long glasses that never emptied and bottomless pits that _ended_ in stained carpets. She held a strange attraction to the way she looked when she was wildly high, when she stopped doing her hair up each morning and let it tangle like vines over a forgotten ruin. When the sun set, she outlasted it; no adjournments and no sips of water, only this thing that took away the black and white squares and made them run into rivers of intoxicating blood. Maybe that was why she so thoroughly enjoyed her anger - she was fueled by poison. 

**_After Moscow_**  
Beth curled up against him on the couch. She’d already laid out the terms and conditions - that she had no romantic interest in him but she loved him, and why did those things have to cancel each other out? Privately, she was fairly certain he had a boyfriend. (Who the hell was Roger?) But that wasn’t something she wanted to assume, and evidently not something Townes wanted to talk about. So she sat there, savoring the warmth of another human being, a caressing gesture she realized she’d been starved of. 

He’d gone to see her in Moscow and eaten spaghetti with her and now they were watching some stupid TV program, and she’d made a casual joke, and she didn’t care about the haze anymore (no capitalization), and his smile was the absolute brightest thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for deep bonds that aren't romantic, and coincidentally I headcanon Beth as arospec (and ace, which I'll get to in a later chapter.) Townes was such a great character, and I'm a bit sad we didn't get to see more of him - although in the book, he actually doesn't even go to Moscow, so I suppose I was favored in the show.


	4. Benny

New York was a strange combination of refreshment and confinement. It held an energy that Kentucky couldn’t hope to match, but it was also full of smoke and car alarms and all sorts of quiet tragedies that made staying indoors seem like the safest option. It was the true picture of American glamor; a somewhat despicable sense of grandeur, yet also a quiet pride that said “yes, this exists and we created it.” And you could find some _damn_ good food.

Not to say that the city was easily defined. It was utterly chaotic. Beth took in the chatter of voices from the sidewalk as she stepped onto the pavement, bidding the taxi driver goodbye and hauling a suitcase out behind her. Pigeons scattered at the clack of her heels; every street vendor claimed the title of World’s Best Hot Pretzel; sunlight gleamed off of everything that moved - 

Beth took a breath, stepped forward, and walked on. Benny’s apartment would be dark and quiet. There would be a chess board. She could sit down. 

Her suitcase thumped against the stairs as she stepped down to Benny’s doorway. His little basement. It was a bit comical, in its own way. She raised her knuckles and knocked, once, three times, a little rhythm just to mildly piss him off. 

Benny threw the door open and grinned savagely from beneath one of his stupid hats. 

“ _So_ fucking good to see you,” he remarked. 

“God, that’s a greeting,” mumbled Beth, smirking and shoving her suitcase at him. “Dump this by my bed?”

“Oh, you’re pumping your bed up again for sure.”

“Dammit.”

Benny’s grin grew even more devilish as he beckoned Beth inside.

“I’ve got a couple friends coming over for food in a bit,” he said over his shoulder, slipping into the darkness of the hallway, “but afterwards it’s just me and you, and we’re gonna talk, and we’re gonna play some chess.”

“I’ll beat you,” Beth said.

Benny dumped her suitcase on the floor and turned around, arms folded. “I don’t care.”

“We’ll see about that. What friends are coming over?”

“Partygoers. Partygoer nerds. People you’ll talk to but won’t really like. They’ll only be here for an hour, don’t worry, I just… promised them guacamole, and I can’t let them down on that.”

Beth nodded idly. “What a tragedy that would be,” she muttered. She decided she needed to go to the bathroom, splash some water on her face so she could think better. 

Standing by the dingy old sink, she looked into the mirror, at her impeccable makeup and smoothed-out hair, and wondered how long into the night it’d take Benny to shatter this little facade of loveliness. Really, there was a dark mood underneath, maroon touched with black, and _that_ was what created the most intricate games of chess; that wrath, those cracks in the marble. Beth touched a finger to her jaw, tracing it down to her neck, watching the bright red nail descend. Then she turned on the sink, splashed cold water on her face, dried it off, and stepped out of the bathroom. 

Benny was at the door again, ushering in a guy in a leather jacket and a couple of women draped in all sorts of scarves and shiny things. Beth watched herself from above, heard Benny introduce her to them - Jackie and Shannon and another name that fizzled out in her mind - and she shook hands, wore her bedazzling smile. She watched Benny’s quiet smiles, caught the distinct lack of a knife in his belt. A bit different. He put out chips and guac and salsa and things that would sit out until midnight. Beth kept cutting her gums on the chips.

After what seemed like forever, marked by the rumbling of cars in the background, Jackie and Shannon and What’s-her-face finally left, leaving the empty chip bag on the small table and stepping outside with overly bright smiles. What had they even talked about? Beth couldn’t recall the conversation at all; it felt like she’d been drifting between herself and the crevices in the stone walls around her. 

Benny placed a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to reality. “Hey,” he muttered.

“If I’m being honest,” said Beth with a sigh, “I have no idea what just happened.”

Benny let out a sharp bark of a laugh, slipping away from her and settling on a cushion across from her, hands resting on the floor. He waited a moment before speaking again; he looked around the room, maybe absorbing inconsequential details, maybe thinking. 

“I shouldn’t’ve let them come,” he said at last, defeat etched into his face. “But I promised them a visit ‘bout a month back, so.”

“So. Hey. Cut the pretense. Why’d you invite me here?”

He raised his eyebrows; taken aback, like Beth wanted. She smirked. _Well?_

“Beth, I hate you,” he said with a smile. “I’m kidding. I just… wanna talk, yeah? Moscow _happened_ and then I didn’t talk to you for about a month, and you’re the world champion, and I’m definitely still a little in love with you. _If I’m being honest_. Hey, hey, no, I’m not asking for anything, I’m just answering your question. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay, so. Yeah.” Beth took a breath. “I was an asshole for not talking to you after Moscow. I guess I was a little high on the prospect of really winning. No, I wasn’t _actually_ high, I’ve stopped that. I… hell, I wanted to call you but there was just so much _press_ and so many cameras and newspaper articles that I just. Yeah. And I’m sorry - actually, I’m not sorry, I just. I have a little bit of trouble falling in love. Don’t know why, but it’s not something that’s ever clicked for me. But I value you a lot, just as deeply as I would a romantic partner.”

Benny bit his lip, eyes cast downward. Beth let him sit like that for a moment, his chest rising and falling, nice and slow.

Then he spoke. “What about the fact that we had sex after meeting in a bar?” he said, and Beth had to laugh - only he would put it so fucking bluntly.

“God, Benny,” she giggled, eliciting another smile from him. “I wouldn’t take back a single minute of it, but here’s what you need to understand. It - sex isn’t nearly as invigorating as a worthy opponent. I just… felt so alone throughout my teenage years, like I wasn’t living up to this _growing up_ thing everyone else was doing. And I was curious, sure, but I never wanted to actively seek out any sort of hookups with anyone. So it was enjoyable with you, yes, but it wasn’t from some base desire on my part. You were captivating and smart as fuck and I guess I told myself, ‘Hey, if I’m gonna try it, might as well be with this guy.’”

“So I was an experiment?”

“ _No_ , Benny. I’ve never actually wanted to have sex with anyone specific and you weren’t an exception, I just _wanted to do it_. I know that doesn’t make much sense saying it, but… God, I don’t even know. I’m still figuring myself out because my childhood was so incredibly, unbelievably fucked-up. But I wasn’t confused. I was enjoying myself.” She smirked. “And so were you.”

Benny rolled his eyes. “Alright, Beth. I believe you. I guess I kind of understand. I’ll never be you, and I’ll never see inside your head, so… hey, yeah. I don’t want you to pity me for being some lovestruck kid, because yeah, I love you, but if I can have the absolute pleasure of being your friend, then I’m doing my life right. No, scratch that - I like what you said. That you can love a friend just as deeply. I think I’m gonna try that.”

“See who’s learning!” Beth said, smiling. She leaned back on her elbows. The hard floor dug into her bones, but it was worth it to watch Benny sink into another fit of thinking, that curious frown adorning his face. So he wasn’t mad. That was something. More than that, he was content with being her friend. Even when she was an asshole, ignoring him after Moscow. She realized once again that Benny was something unique, Benny and Townes, both of them content with the way she laid out terms of agreement. It made something blossom in her heart. Something bright red and yellow. Something that felt like home. 

Benny shifted his legs, suddenly coming up to a crouch. “We gonna play chess or what?” he asked.

“We’re going to play chess,” Beth answered, “and I’m going to win.”

“Shut the fuck _up_. The board’s set up already.”

“You always have it set up.”

“That’s a lucky guess on your part, but yeah, I always have it set up.”

The two of them sat opposite each other at the little table; Benny swiped the empty bag of chips onto the floor, muttering “Damn Jackie,” and shifting the chess board the right way. He was going to play white. Beth smirked at him across the table; he scowled back.

Ruy Lopez opening on his part; the first moves to set the dance in motion, and suddenly that little spark of anticipation began to bloom. Just a touch of adrenaline. Playing against Benny was much different than playing anyone else. He was more like a partner in tango than an opponent. Their plays bounced off each other, intertwined, formed intricacies unmatched by most others. Both of them, she knew, could see the chess board against the back of their minds, playing every bit of it in their imaginations as much as on the board itself.

After a long and grueling forty-six move game, she had his king trapped in a double-rook endgame, destined to be pushed to his death. Benny resigned.

“Blitz chess?” she inquired, cocking her head and giving him her most challenging glare.

“Shit, I guess so,” Benny replied, his chin falling on his hands in defeat. But he couldn’t help but grin as Beth’s face shifted into one of defiance, and one of - imagine that - happiness. 

“I’m making us a proper dinner of mini tacos,” he said, “and then I’m going to kick your ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow, this one was much more fun to write than I thought it was going to be. More conversation and less... weird poetic rambles. Also, it's currently 1:30 in the morning. Asexual/arospec Beth was a sort of spontaneous headcanon of mine, but I actually love the way it works. Anyway, thank you all for consuming the paragraphs I continually spout. :)


End file.
